The Maestro had a very comfortable suite of apartments in Milan overlooking the Via Carlo Alberto, near the Piazza del Duomo, which were chosen by him on account of their situation, as he could sit at the window of his bedroom and amuse himself by gazing at the crowded street. This watching of the populace was his great delight, and when not giving a lesson he was generally stationed at his window, or else employed in reading Il Seccolo, which he did in a curious fashion, by holding it close to his best-seeing eye.

Of course, like all the entrances to these Milanese flats, the stairs were singularly damp, dark, and malodorous, and after running the gauntlet of a fat portanaia, who was devouring a large dish of polenta in her glass house, we climbed up the humid steps, and speedily arrived at the second storey, where dwelt the Maestro when in Milan. To make up for the filth under our feet the ceilings over our heads were gorgeously painted with mythological figures; and even at that moment I could not help recalling George Sands' remark anent the contrast between these two. However, we had no time to admire the clumsy Jupiter throwing fire-brand thunderbolts, for at this moment Petronella, who had seen us through the dingy glass of her own little sanctum, opened the door, and was about to burst into a torrent of greetings, when I stopped her to ask if the Signora Pallanza was at home.

"Yes! yes! the Signora is in, but she is engaged-- engaged in talking with a lady--Dio! a great lady!

"Great heavens! we may be too late!" I muttered to Beltrami, who nodded his head silently. "Petronella, speak low. This gentleman and myself came on an important errand to the Signora. What is the lady's name?"

"Signor, she said she was the Marchesa Beltrami," replied Petronella, her jolly face growing rather grave at all this mystery.

"Is Signor Pallanza in?"

"No, Signor Hugo; he has gone to see an impresario."

"She is alone with Madame, let us go in at once," whispered Beltrami, exhibiting the first signs of alarm I had ever beheld in him.

"One moment! What about the Maestro, Petronella?"

"In his bedroom, Signor Hugo, at the window. Holy Saints! what is wrong?"

"Nothing! nothing! I will explain all shortly; but meanwhile, Petronella, show us a place where we can see into the room where the Signora is talking to the Marchesa, without being seen."

Beltrami nodded his head approvingly, for he saw my plan was to overhear the conversation, and only interrupt it should there be any danger to the Signora. Petronella was bursting with curiosity, but seeing, from the expression of our faces, that something important was going on, she screwed up her mouth with a shrewd look, to assure us we could depend upon her, and, closing the outside door cautiously, led us into the room adjacent to that in which the conversation was taking place. Pointing to an archway, veiled by curtains, to intimate that there was nothing else but the drapery to impede our hearing, she retired on tiptoe, with a puzzled, serious look on her usually merry face.

It seemed my fate to overhear mysterious conversations through veiled archways, but this one was not used as an entrance between the two rooms, for, as I peered through the curtains, 1 saw in front of them a small square table, upon which was placed a lacquered tray with glasses, and an oval straw-covered bottle of Chianti wine. I drew back for a moment, to see if Beltrami had noticed this obstacle to our sudden entrance into the room; but, instead of appearing dismayed, he had a grim, satisfied smile on his lips, as if he rather approved than otherwise of this table blocking up the doorway. Puzzled at this, I withdrew my eyes from his face, and looked again into the room beyond, where the Marchesa Beltrami was seated, talking to Bianca in what appeared to be a very friendly fashion.

It must be remembered that Bianca knew nothing about the Contessa Morone's intrigue with her husband, as both Guiseppe and myself had carefully kept all knowledge of the affair from her; and moreover, owing to her nervous agitation, she had not recognized the voice of the Marchesa when she spoke to us in the darkness of that fatal chamber at Verona. Consequently she was completely in ignorance of the real character of her visitor, and only beheld in her a lady who had called to see Signor Pallanza about some important business; this, as I afterwards learned, being the excuse she gave for her presence in the Casa Angello. It was truly terrible to see these two women seated together in friendly discourse, the one so innocent of the danger she was in, the other so ruthless in her determination to revenge herself on her rival. The pure white dove was in the clutches of this relentless hawk, who, while watching her victim so closely, was meditating as to the best means of carrying out her plans.

"Oh, it is horrible!" I murmured, turning pale with emotion.

"Hush!" whispered Beltrami with a sinister look; "she will fall into her own pit."

What did he mean by these strange words? I could not understand; but I had no time nor desire to ask for an explanation, as the terrible drama being played out in the next room riveted my attention; so, with a violent effort of self-repression, I resumed my post of observation, and listened to the conversation between the two actresses in the tragedy. It was idle and frivolous, the conversation of two strangers who had nothing to talk about but the merest commonplace; but this frivolity had for us a ghastly meaning; this commonplace concealed a frightful intention.

"And so, Signora Pallanza, you have never heard your husband mention my name!"

"No, Madame!"

"It is strange," said the Marchesa, smiling; "for in Rome I did what I could to help him in his profession. Eh! yes. I heard him singing Faust at the Apollo, and told all my friends to go and hear the New Mario."

"That is what they call him here, Signora," replied Bianca proudly; "but, indeed, it was kind of you to aid him. I wonder Guiseppe never spoke to me about you, for he never forgets a kindness."

"Ah! I'm afraid some men have not much gratitude," said Madame Beltrami with a laugh. "Never mind, when Signor Pallanza comes in you will see he has not forgotten me."

"He could hardly do that, Madame," answered Bianca, looking with honest admiration at the splendid beauty of the woman before her. "Had I seen you before I would always have remembered you! But--it is so strange!"

"What is strange, Signora?"

"I do not recognize your face, and yet I seem to have heard your voice before."

"Possibly!" said the Marchesa indifferently. "I go about a good deal."

"Were you ever in Verona?"

Madame Beltrami was startled for the moment at this apparently innocent question, but recovered her self-possession in a moment, and laughed gaily in a rather forced fashion,--

"Yes, Signora! I lived there a long time with my first husband, Count Giorgio Morone."

"Morone!" cried Bianca, starting to her feet with a cry of alarm. "Oh! Madame, do you know that palace?"

The Marchesa saw that she had made a mistake by mentioning that fatal name, but with iron nerve opened a fan she had hanging to her girdle and fanned herself slowly.

"Of course I do," she answere............